


Eggnog

by distantstarlight



Series: 12 Lays of Christmas [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Declarations Of Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, angst in tiny amount, drunk sex (almost)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 08:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight





	Eggnog

Challenging your flatmate to eggnog shots followed by matching shots of straight rum probably hadn’t been a good idea, especially since they’d spent the entire evening celebrating Christmas with all their friends. Spirits had been liberally offered, and now that everyone was gone, only John and Sherlock remained to continue with the party. They’d been playing some kind of card game. Sherlock didn’t recall all the rules. _Something about taking a drink if your opponent showed a face card, or possibly it was an even numbered card…wait, an odd numbered card?_ _Something_. He’d lost track right after they ran out of eggnog early on in the game. Their conversation had become intense, daring, revealing. He couldn’t recall clearly what they’d been talking about but it had seemed important at the time. They’d forgotten about playing during that conversation, especially after John’s hands began to wander, and Sherlock failed to make the slightest effort to stop them.

Now John was standing right behind Sherlock, and they were both were naked. Sherlock wasn’t exactly certain when the nudity had happened, but it had, otherwise how else would his naked arse be waving around in front of their fireplace? John was doing filthy things to it, but of course, he would. _John was a naughty filthy soldier and a slag. Of course, John would try disgusting things like bending over and sticking his tongue up Sherlock’s bum. How revolting_. Sherlock opened his mouth to tell John how base he was. He made sure to enunciate carefully so that his friend would hear him properly, “Oh my god, John, that’s it, use me, take me any way you’d like.”

 _There, that should show him. Wait. What had he said?_ Sherlock tried to recall his exact words, but it was difficult to think when John was inserting a rather thick finger up his arse. It was distracting, to say the least, especially when John paired the intrusion with a judicious suck on Sherlock’s left bollock. _How had he reached it all bent over like he was_? Sherlock peeked. The doctor seemed to be kneeling now, his face pushed up against one arse cheek to watch his own hand move. Sherlock gripped the mantle with desperate fingers. He was fast losing stability in his knees. _How had John managed that?_

Sherlock wondered which part of the rules this manoeuvre applied to, never having played this card game before. _Was this a forfeit? A penalty?_ John’s clever finger found Sherlock’s prostate and stroked it. _Ah, reward. It was a reward._ Sherlock must have won the game. He deserved this then, and that was good because it felt so nice. “You’re so tight, Sherlock, my cock is barely going to fit. I’m going to split you in two. I’m going to fuck you so deep, and so hard. I’m going to come in you, Sherlock. Has anyone done that? I want to see my come leak out of this tight little arsehole. It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to put my prick in there. I can’t wait to make you come on it. I’m going to fuck you so good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt like the entire room was spinning around in a gloriously chaotic swirl. The only thing that kept him from submitting to vertigo was John’s steadying presence. For a man so much shorter than he was, John was still powerful, and in his own very special way, much _bigger_ than one might imagine. Sherlock had a brilliant imagination, but even he had to admit that he had vastly underestimated John’s endowments. It should have been frightening but all he felt was arousal and excitement. John had overwhelmed him, disrupting Sherlock’s ability to form coherent thought nearly perfectly. It was a rush like none he’d ever experienced, and Sherlock wanted it to last forever nearly as much as he wanted John to get on with it.

The good doctor seemed entranced by the way his fingers looked pushing in and out of Sherlock’s bottom. He kept doing it, drizzling on a drop or two more of lubricant that he’d gotten from who knows where repeatedly until Sherlock was sopping wet. “I need your cock, John. I want to know what it feels like to have you inside me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make you feel good. I want to make you feel better than anyone else ever has.” John’s voice was strained, and Sherlock realized that he was holding himself back. It as rather thrilling to know that John’s hands were lethal weapons and that if he wanted to, he could really hurt Sherlock. It made him harder than ever when John was slow and gentle.

The soldier’s comments finally penetrated the alcoholic fog. Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was talking about and hazily tried to make sense of the comment, “No one ever has, John. I haven’t wanted anyone to even try before. I’m glad it’s you. I’ve thought about it.” _So many times._ It was annoying at first to have his libido activated without his permission, but his mastery over his transport had always been a work in progress, not that he wanted to stop letting it lose control right now, not when it meant that _Doctor John Hamish Watson_ had three fingers examining parts of Sherlock in a very unprofessional manner. He loved it and pushed back until they were moving at a good clip.

“Did you?” John seemed to own a dozen hands. Sherlock felt his touches everywhere. “I don’t want to be an experiment to you. I want this to be something that’s special to you.”

Too many drinks aside, Sherlock wasn’t nearly drunk enough to miss the fact that John didn’t understand. He stopped thrusting back in order to explain, “This isn’t just drunk sex, or my first time, except that it is on both counts. It means something, to me at least. Do you think I’d do this with just anyone, just because I was inebriated? Not a chance, Watson. Even at my worst, I never once had sex with anyone. I told you. I’ve never wanted to.”

“I should stop. You wouldn’t want this if we hadn’t had so much to drink. This is wrong, then.” John pulled his fingers out and tried to flounder away but Sherlock stopped him by flopping over the doctor like a drunken comfort blanket, trapping him on the carpet between their coffee table and the sofa. “Sherlock, let me leave, you’re off your head, you don’t want sex with anyone! I’m not going to have sex with you!”

“Not _anyone_ , just a particular someone. _You_ , John, aren’t you listening? I’ve wondered so many times what it would be like to be with you. Don’t you want me? People say I’m attractive,” Sherlock had an awful thought. He blurted the words out without being able to stop himself, “Do I turn you off? Is that the phrase?” Sherlock felt sad now, and hugged his John tight to make himself feel better, “I’m sorry John. I’ll let you go. I know you only like women. I’m sorry.” Sherlock found that he was sniffling, and he felt so terrible. “Okay. I am going to go now.” Miserably, Sherlock rolled off of John and lay flat on his back, staring up at the blank ceiling before heaving himself up and wobbling off to his bedroom where he curled up around a cold pillow. _This was probably the better choice. John wasn’t gay. Tonight had obviously been one terrible drunken error that John wanted no part of_.

John trailed in after him, “Turn me off? Are you insane? You’re the sexiest person I’ve ever seen, Sherlock, your arse is just…wow, and your hair, oh my god, the way your skin looks so pale but your scars are like stories, and I just…I…I, um…are you sad?” John sounded a bit muddled now.

“No,” he lied. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat and he was seconds away from crying. _It was horrible. He was never having eggnog ever again, and so what if it had been his idea to have shots of rum, that was never happening again either. John didn’t want to have sex with him and now he needed a minute to compose himself_. He just needed one more minute. “You can go, John.”

“I can’t leave when you’re sad. It makes me sad too. I only want you to be happy. How can I make you happy, Sherlock?” John sounded anxious.

“You can’t. You don’t want me. You just said so.”

“What? No! That’s not what I meant at all! _You_ don’t want _me_. You don’t have sex with anyone. We’re drunk right now. Having sex would feel great but I don’t want you to hate me in the morning.”

“Why would I hate you?”

“Because…the sex?”

“We haven’t _had_ any.”

“And we aren’t going to!”

“What are we talking about?”

“Not sexing because of the drunkness.”

“Right.”

There was a lot of silence. Sherlock felt melancholy now and he sighed. John was sitting on the edge of the bed looking as morose as Sherlock felt. “Maybe we should just sleep on it. If we _really_ want to have sex with each other, we can have it when we’re sober. Maybe drunk first-time sex is not a good choice.”

“I’m significantly less drunk than I was a few minutes ago.” Sherlock felt his head clearing up as the sadness took over. “Fine. I’ll sleep.”

He rolled under his blanket. There was no point in pyjamas, the only person he wore them for was John who had already sucked his cock before fingering him open. Now Sherlock’s arse felt sticky and cold, his cock was softened but still very sensitive. Sherlock was too emotionally spent to do anything about it. John left the room and Sherlock closed his eyes tight and tried not to let the tears spill over, covering his face with his hands, fingertips pressed tight to his eyelids as if that would stop the agony from leaking out. This entire evening had been confusing and awful, marvellous, and heart-breaking.

A sound startled him. _John was back!_ “Pull off the duvet for a minute.” Sherlock found his coverlet thrown back and was very startled to feel a very warm damp cloth being applied to his backside. After he was clean of lubricant, John even patted his bum dry with another towel. The doctor left again but came back only a minute later with two tall glasses of water, “Come on, we’ll each have one.”

John made Sherlock sit up and drink the entire glass. When they were done, John got Sherlock tucked into bed. The doctor surprised him by sliding naked under the covers with him, spooning up to Sherlock’s back, and holding him tight, “John?” The sensation was as overwhelming as the almost-sex had been. John seemed to be plastered against him like living armour and it was nice.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock. We’ll figure things out in the morning.” Sherlock felt so much better with John against his back. He felt sheltered and comforted, protected, and coddled. John’s embrace was firm, it allowed Sherlock to close his eyes trustingly. He could feel John’s strong heartbeat against his skin and enjoyed the firmness of John’s thighs pressed against the backs of his. It was all lovely and in no time, he was able to drift off peacefully.

Waking up was nightmarish. His head throbbed and his stomach felt sloshy and his bum felt like it wasn’t working properly. His legs certainly weren’t. His entire body felt at odds with itself. By the time he’d struggled to sit up he’d woken John. Too much drink didn’t agree with the doctor either, he looked a bit green. Sherlock knew he was awake but John stubbornly refused to open his eyes. Sherlock was going to make a mocking remark but it suddenly became urgent to have a bit of a shout down the bog. John nearly pushed him out the door the moment he was done and had his own loud moment.

Sherlock was shaky and weak feeling. He almost crawled back into bed and managed to cover himself with the still warm duvet even though his fingers were trembling. He couldn’t recall feeling this queasy, at least, not for years now. It was highly unpleasant and he was too ill to even attempt to do anything about it.

He fell into a fitful half-doze and was brought back to consciousness by the fragrant scent of tea. He felt a gentle hand card through his hair. The caress seemed to brush away some of the unpleasant tension and Sherlock relaxed. John’s voice was full of affection, “You look like shite, come on, see if you can sit up and have a bit of this.”

Sherlock managed to open one eye but he wasn’t interested in bothering with the other one. “I hate you.”

“I think you mean you hate eggnog. You love me.”

The words just rolled off of John’s tongue as if he said them every day, as if they were words he heard often, and was comfortable with them. Sherlock was shocked to his core because it was true. He did intensely dislike eggnog at the moment and he did indeed love John so he agreed by merely saying, “I stand corrected.” Sherlock heaved himself up, stuffed a pillow behind his back, and took the cup of tea from John.

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed, a large and happy smile on his face. After he managed to drink a recuperative sip, Sherlock noticed that John was wearing Sherlock’s favourite blue robe. It suited him, even if the arms were a touch too long. “I think some food will help our stomachs.”

The idea was nauseating but John wasn’t taking any guff, just holding out his hand and silently urging Sherlock to emerge from his rank cocoon. To his delighted surprise, John treated Sherlock to a bowl of easy to eat hot cereal which the doctor had slow cooked along with a handful of dried fruit, a trick he’d learned from one of his many military acquaintances. John ate his with a drizzle of honey but Sherlock felt childishly compelled to heap spoons of sugar onto his which John shook his head and laughed. It was far too sweet but he ate every bite regardless, scraping up the bottom of his dish with the spoon to chase every last trace of his breakfast because John had made it.

John urged Sherlock to go have a wash while he cleaned up the kitchen. The blast of hot water rinsed away the last of his misery, leaving behind only exhaustion and lethargy. Sherlock shaved closely, and afterwards, he cleaned his mouth every way he could manage in order to rid himself of any last trace of eggnog induced unhappiness. Sherlock debated for a moment about dressing before settling on clean pyjamas and his robe. He was a little nervous about seeing John now that his hangover was gone but by the time he left his room, his friend had taken himself away for his own shower.

Sherlock flittered around nervously. He didn’t have a clue what to expect from John. They hadn’t discussed last night at all and every minute that passed took Sherlock further and further away from his comfort zone. By the time John emerged from the shower, cheeks pink from the steamy heat, Sherlock had wound himself up into a state of almost catatonic worry. He stood frozen by the very same fireplace where John had done things to Sherlock’s body that he’d never even once contemplated doing, his eyes wide and unblinking as the doctor approached. John’s face was a study in amusement as he shocked Sherlock by coming right over and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s unmoving waist, “Breath.”

Sherlock gasped for air, “John.”

“It’s okay, I know, you’re probably filled with questions and have no idea where to begin or what to say?”

Sherlock nodded. Carefully, he brought his arms up and clasped them loosely around John’s shoulder, since apparently, they were doing that now. John relaxed against him and just stood there, “Yes?”

“Well, from the bits of last night I recall, you told me that you’ve been in love with me for years now, right before I told you I felt the same way.” Sherlock blinked down at John. _He’d told John? All those years of hiding his heart and he’d just blabbered it out?_ “I’m so glad you told me, I’m so bloody happy right now, Sherlock.”

It seemed appropriate to bend down and kiss John, so he did. The doctor fit perfectly in his arms, and it felt so nice to have their mouths press together as they were right then. John made a rumbling sound right before the kiss was deepened, both men hungrily trying to consume the other. Sherlock’s body felt sluggish yet again, but this time the languorous sensation was due to the intensity of his arousal. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Not a clue.”

John laughed, and it was a bit wet since the good doctor seemed to be a bit overwhelmed with sentiment at the moment. Sherlock decided he liked how John looked right then, damp and wobbly, but so very pleased. “Me either, Sherlock. I just…I want you.”

Sherlock felt a great peace settle over him, banishing all his earlier nervousness. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to worry about. “I do love you, John Watson.”

“I love you right back, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s red-rimmed eyes were bright and shining with joy.

Sherlock had never seen lovelier so he bent down again, this time to kiss John tenderly once on each cheek. “Take me to bed, John.”

“It really is Christmas.” John laughed softly before stepping back, drawing Sherlock after him as he walked to Sherlock’s room.

Once they were there, all inhibitions seemed to melt away. John tasted delicious, and Sherlock wanted to sample every inch of him. It took no time at all to rid themselves of robes and pyjamas, to tumble onto Sherlock’s still rumpled bed, and indulging in a mutual exploration. Their wandering hands and mouths stoked the fire ever higher between them until John wrestled Sherlock into kneeling in front of him, arse high in the air so that John could orally debauch him a second time.

It was divine.

John tongued and fingered Sherlock for ages, not stopping until he was able to sink three sturdy fingers in easily. Sherlock had long since lost his ability to remain quiet, panting and making strange little sounds as jolts of pleasure caught up by surprise again and again. It was so strange to cede such control over to his friend, to allow John the freedom to do as he liked. Sherlock’s transport was grateful, and each inward push of those clever fingers wrung a groan from Sherlock’s lips, “You’re so bloody perfect.”

John was panting along with him and soon enough, Sherlock felt John’s fingers pull away so that John could begin pushing the fat head of his cock inside. “John.” Sherlock floundered for words, “It feels amazing. Huge. Frightening. Glorious.”

It was like being pulled apart and being completed at the same time. John’s cock felt intrusive and right simultaneously. Sherlock wasn’t certain that he could process the many feelings he was experiencing right then. There was pleasure and discomfort, desire as well as apprehension. He was vulnerable right then, John could do anything to him. The doctor seemed to understand and rained kisses on Sherlock’s back and shoulders as he pressed himself deeper. Sherlock grunted, trying to control his body’s need to expel John.

John seemed to know just what to do to soothe him. Using his right hand, John reached around to grasp Sherlock’s cock, smearing the pre-cum that wet the head along his shaft until he was slick enough to stroke. Sherlock felt his whole body respond. This was what he’d wanted for so long and it felt incredible. Only John could do this to him, only John had the right. Sherlock groaned again and it triggered a reaction from John. Deep inside himself, Sherlock felt John swell and jerk right before he pulled almost completely out from Sherlock’s body. John pushed forward again and together they groaned. John did it again, only faster, and he kept doing it.

Sherlock sagged where he knelt but John wasn’t having any of it. Strong fingers tangled into Sherlock’s curls, pulling his torso back into a tight curve. Sherlock’s knees were kept apart by John’s legs, and he was unable to do anything except accept the driving thrusts that were rocking him. It was magnificent. John took him hard and fast, each push and thrust bringing Sherlock higher until he was breathless and incapable of speech. Sherlock’s entire body was tight, straining. Their bodies slapped together in a rude symphony of sweat, lube, and slick; it made Sherlock harder than ever to experience it.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was rough and desperate, “Sherlock.” John’s hands slipped from Sherlock’s head and down to his hips. The doctor grasped him hard enough to leave bruises, yanking him backwards onto John’s cock faster than ever. Sherlock felt his own cock bounce and wave wildly but he couldn’t touch himself, it was too much, too intense. He didn’t need it anyway because now he was coming, his orgasm heralded by a long, drawn-out moan vaguely in the shape of John’s name. Come spurted out, stripes of it landing on his pillow, the sheet, and a splat of it ending up on the headboard. John pumped deep and slow now, emptying himself out inside Sherlock, leaving behind the biological token of their amour.

Both men collapsed at the same time. Sherlock no longer had the physical strength to do more than to lay face-down on the bed with John gasping for air on top of him. John’s head was between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and every heated breath was making Sherlock sweat even more. He didn’t say a word.

They dozed for a long time before finally coming round. John had to peel himself off of Sherlock, the dried effluvia between them creating a fantastic natural glue, “Erg.” John sounded disgusted, “We really need to wash.”

The room smelled ripe, and Sherlock knew that they both reeked of stale sweat and ejaculate. It wasn’t horrible but it was more powerful than he expected, “Carry me.”

“I will drag your lazy arse off this bed and drop you to the floor.” John’s threat only made Sherlock smile dreamily. John took his arm and hauled him to the edge of the mattress. He pulled Sherlock’s legs over and forced the detective to sit up. John leaned over and threw Sherlock’s unresisting arm over one strong shoulder and pulled up, yanking him to his feet, “Enough?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock placidly followed his lover to the shower and stood there while John washed them both from head to foot. He couldn’t bother himself, too high on endorphins still, but John didn’t seem to mind. He was happy, content, and sated in a way he’d never experienced in his life and it was all because of John. “I love you.”

“I know, love,” John smiled softly as he finished rinsing Sherlock free of soap, “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock smiled, wrapping his arms around the strong man in front of him, “Happy Christmas, John.”

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” Nothing more needed to be said, not that night. Everything important had already been shared and now there was nothing to do but begin their lives together as they should have done so many years earlier, together. “You are my Christmas Angel.”

 


End file.
